Turncoat
by ammcj062
Summary: An AU version of the pool scene and beyond, written for the prompt, "John had been Moriarty's man in the beginning. He's Sherlock's man now."


A/N: Written for a prompt at comment-fic: "John had been Moriarty's man in the beginning. He's Sherlock's man now." Spoilers for The Great Game. I've given in! I've written a pool scene! Apparently, the prompts for Sherlock I've answered lately will do nothing else than piggyback themselves onto canon scenes. Warning for implied eventual character death.

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><p>John stands in that damned parka and waits for Sherlock to see it. To look at the straight lay of his hair and the bloodlessness of his nose and the lack of the scuff marks on his shoes and announce,<em>You've been working for Moriarty all along.<em> Add that drawling _Obviously_ to the end of his sentence like the insult he intends it to be. Continue with the exposition, because solving a crime just isn't as much fun unless he gets to gloat. _He's been following my every move through you, and now he thinks I care about you enough to risk my own safety. How incredibly irrational of you, Moriarty. I expected better. _

He blinks, rapidly and completely involuntarily, with the effort to keep his face steady, to keep from deviating from the script Moriarty is whispering in his earpiece, from trying to explain himself before Sherlock can cut him down as he deduces every mistake he's made, every wrong he's done from his very presence. _You're a medical man, couldn't lie about that to me. Not skilled enough at deception. Also a soldier. You met Moriarty in Afghanistan – only place you would, someone as worthless as you. How many people of his had you stitched up, knowing they were working against your side, before you were invalidated? I imagine it must be in the dozens. All for some extra supplies, Doctor? Goods you thought would save more lives but did absolutely nothing, since you can't repair those already dying. Pathetic, John. Too concerned with the victims, as always. Such a weakness. _

Incredibly, somehow, Sherlock misses all the clues. He doesn't sneer or roll his eyes or rip him to shreds with that sharp tongue of his, but looks at John with such a blank, uncomprehending stare as his mind whirls through the facts and implications and just stops itself short. "John," He breathes, disbelieving the evidence. "What the hell-" See how it is from the other side, John, Moriarty had told him as he'd handed the parka over, fully expecting John to strap the live explosives to himself with nary a protest. He was Moriarty's man after all. See how the famous Sherlock Holmes will react when he realizes you're not his loyal little sidekick, he'd said. It'll be so lovely to watch his face, don't you think?

John doesn't like it much at all.

Moriarty keeps talking, however, and John keeps repeating. He recognizes at least one of the snipers holding him in laser sights from a late-night visit to his operating table, but he's the hostage now. It doesn't matter what he did for them; if Moran gives the order, they'll pull the trigger. Moriarty's operation never rewarded the emotional, never will. The only rewards are for being useful. John keeps talking.

Finally, the words in his ear stop, just as John's voice cracks with the strain. Moriarty steps out from the shadows, just as eager as Sherlock to come face to face with a man he considers his equal, and speaks with his own mouth. John is free to stand there and think, one ear on the conversation. With a laser dancing across his chest, John knows he can't continue this way. He stays with Moriarty it's bound to end bloody – used up in one of his 'little games.' Maybe used up right now, if Sherlock says or does the wrong thing. He's disposable in the organization. There are other doctors from the war, other surgeons without an intermittent tremor in their dominant hand who can patch up assassins and thugs and strongmen.

If he goes with Sherlock, Moriarty might ensure it ends even bloodier. But he has a life at 221B, has a purpose that allows him to fall asleep at night without guilt gnawing at him and a job at the clinic that lets him remember what a mundane life feels like and a wonderful, brilliant idiot of a roommate who's holding a gun to John's boss and asking John if _he's alright_. That roommate doesn't think John is disposable, despite the fact he could find hundreds of people who'd listen as he talked his incredible leaps of logic through. He lets John borrow his card when his account is out to buy groceries and cures John's limp with a chase through London and breathy laughter and sacrifices a sliver of his reputation as omniscient crime-solver to protect John from an inquiry from the death of that cabbie. He owes it to Sherlock, for all the man's done for him. He might die bloody, but God, what a _life_.

When John looks at it that way, the decision is pretty obvious. _Moron,_ his brain scoffs. _Of course it's him._

John has to get Sherlock away from the pool. There are too many ways this confrontation could go wrong. Moriarty could kill him or abduct him or convince him to do things Sherlock wouldn't normally but for the excitement of finding an equal. Sherlock has seen him face-to-face, has talked to the man and no doubt deduced a thousand things about him John could never figure out. It was time for Sherlock to retreat to a safer position, regroup, utilize the resources available to him through Lestrade and Mycroft. Distance himself from the emotions he proclaimed not to have while he comes up with a plan of attack. Then he'd be on a more even keel to deal with Moriarty again.

There was one way to get Sherlock out of there, John knew. He was familiar with Moran, had met the man a handful of times and seen the aftermath of one of his operations more than that. He knew well enough how the man would jump when provoked, and now Moriarty was stepping into a better position, arrogantly confident that John would remain inert.

It was with private relish John shattered those expectations and leapt upon Moriarty, sliding an arm over the man's neck to keep him relatively inert. "Run, Sherlock!" He ordered. Moran would be too focused upon John to notice the genius slipping out of his grasp. And with Sherlock gone, John could safely try and play upon all those debts he's created over the years without risking exposure. Odds were, the final stages of that plan would fail miserably, but Sherlock would be safe and John still intended to try. With Moriarty muzzled by a forearm over his airway, Moran just might succumb to his soldierly training enough to remember to repay the life he owed John. And when John came back unscathed to 221B – well, he'd figure that out later.

But Sherlock didn't run, and Moriarty started laughing. "Oh," he said between chuckles despite John's warning tug on his throat, "_Good_." It hadn't been arrogance that made Moriarty place John at his back, John realizes, but a test. One he'd failed miserably and as a result of Sherlock's refusal to move gained nothing. Oh, God. Moriarty won't stop talking no matter how John tugs him about, turning his head and hissing "so touchingly loyal" in his face like the threat it is. John keeps on expecting Sherlock's face to change as the truth of John's true-now-former allegiance dawns on him, but for once his brain stubbornly distances itself from the truth. How can Sherlock not _see?_"Oops!' Moriarty cackles. Of course, he knows. He can tell what John is dreading. "You've rather shown you hand there, Doctor Watson." And Moriarty's going to keep dropping hints until Sherlock's brain cannot block the conclusion any longer and shows him without any doubt that John, until a very few short minutes ago, was working for Moriarty all along. For how could John have shown his hand unless he wasn't loyal to Sherlock in the first place?

Before Moriarty can continue, however, Moran has realized he has options other than John to aim at and orders one of his men to set Sherlock in his sights. John is forced to let go, and Moriarty abandons destroying John's life to focus once again on Sherlock. Next to Sherlock, John is nothing, barely worth the distraction to look at him. The two geniuses talk more – threats and taunts interspersed seamlessly with compliments– and then incredibly, the lasers on John's chest disappear and Moriarty simply walks out.

Moriarty is gone, they're both alive, and Sherlock is tearing the booby-trapped coat off John's frame with frantic worry. For whatever reason, Moriarty has left him in this life he's built. John heaves a huge sigh of relief, responds to Sherlock's ever-lounder queries. He's fine. He's bloody wonderful, given the possible outcomes. He breaths heavily as the delayed panic washes over him, feeling himself go light-headed and his vision white out. Sherlock's footsteps retreat as he runs after Moriarty, assured that John won't be blown up in the immediate future. In the long-term, however…

"Oh, Christ."

He just leapt upon Jim fucking Moriarty. He just betrayed the most powerful criminal genius and psychopath in the world. John's knees go weak in horror and he staggers over the wall to control his fall, leaning into the rough concrete as he slides down to a crouch. He has to keep breathing, in and out. Now he's not focused entirely on Sherlock, Moriarty will remember what he does to men who betray him. Keep breathing, John tells himself. It doesn't matter what Moriarty decides to do with John in the future. He's alive now. Whatever happens he has time to prepare for. Jesus. He'd better update his will. Sherlock's footsteps get louder again; he's coming back. Apparently, Moriarty's truly gone. John has Sherlock on his side now. He has time to explain the whole mess on his own time to Sherlock. Whatever Moriarty tries, Sherlock can figure it out. It'll be alright.

That thought cheers up John enough that he can look at Sherlock, pay attention to what he's mumbling his way through, crack a joke and laugh. Endorphins crash through his system as he does, because they're both alive and Sherlock doesn't know yet, but John can make him understand the information he'd traded was to keep other soldiers still in Afghanistan well-supplied with medical gear and tonight John can crash onto his bed at 221B Baker Street without feeling the tiniest bit of guilt for the first time in a long while. It feels wonderful. The weakness in John's knees goes away, though he can still feel slight tremors going through his bad leg, and now's as good a time as any to try standing up again. They shouldn't linger. John puts a hand on the floor to steady himself as he shifts to stand up – and freezes as a small red dot appears once more.

No.

"You can't be allowed to continue," Moriarty says, amongst other things. "You just can't." And John knows that's directed towards him for once. He's the reason why his and Sherlock's corpses will soon be bundled up into the trunks of unmarked cars and dumped God knows where, never to be seen again. He's pitted himself against Moriarty and lost, and now he's going to die. His own fucking fault.

Sherlock's looking at him sideways now, a gleam in his eye that's familiar after running after him on all those cases. He has a plan. Something Sherlockian, decidedly insane, no doubt. But John's thrown in his lot tonight. There's no going back, even if he wanted to. So he nods the tiniest bit at Sherlock and watches as he turns and aims at the vest of Semtex. Yes, insane alright. Only an absolute lunatic would go along with it. Which is what he's turned out to be, right? Siding with one man against an organization. He has to have something wrong in his head. John bites his tongue, tenses, and watches Sherlock's hand. The minute it begins to squeeze, John lunges. He barrels into Sherlock a millisecond after he hears the gunshot, and then they're both tumbling downwards.

As they fall, John's thoughts run lightning quick. There's no burning pain anywhere on John's body, and he knows Sherlock wasn't hit; John made sure his dive put him in front of the source of the lasers. So either every single one of Moriarty's snipers missed – unlikely – or there was another end game. Perhaps this was some sort of test. One last provocation just to see what Sherlock would do before swanning off. If they survived this, they would be home free, for real this time. It sounds like the best option, anyway, until there's time to think on it later. John shuts his eyes and braces for impact.

The roar of the explosion and the crash of them tumbling into the pool meshes into one overpowering noise before John's head hits water and it's all muffled. He can feel the heat of the fireball overhead, imagines if he opened his eyes the pool would be illuminated orange-red. But he doesn't – instead, he grasps Sherlock closer and fights the buoyancy trying to push him upwards. He stretches his feet down until they brush the bottom of the pool and pulls Sherlock down with him, using his free hand to keep himself from floating upwards. How long will they have to stay down here until it's safe to surface? How long can they stay down here until they have to surface? Sherlock would probably know.

John hears a dull thud and feels water push towards him, reflect off the side of the pool, and wash him back the other way. Probably a part of the ceiling landing in the pool. Jesus. The terror of not seeing the concrete that could come crushing down at any minute forces John to open his eyes despite the sting of the combined chlorine and concrete dust. The pool is a murky grey haze, all sized bits of concrete tumbling in. At least the initial fireball has died out, if the lack of illumination is anything to go by. It damaged the ceiling enough, however, that it's crumbling down on top of them. If they get trapped down here by a rock, they'll drown; John's already feeling the strain on his lungs to keep holding his breath. John glances over at Sherlock, who is looking back at him. He points a hand up and mouths, _up_. Together they swim for the surface.

John breaks through the surface with a grateful gasp, and can hear Sherlock beside him doing the same. Dust particles thrown up into the air irritate his lungs as he inhales, but John ignores them in favor for sucking down more oxygen. Thankfully, the mostly concrete surroundings offered little to burn, so the smoke was fairly light; just the last bit of the curtains, flung across the room in the explosion and slowly smoldering into ashes. He shakes the water from his head to keep it dripping into his eyes and gropes for the side of the pool.

Sherlock is already ahead of him, hoisting himself up onto the uneven and pitted remains of the scorched deck. He's standing next to a chunk of concrete probably weighing twice as much as John that's perched on the very edge of the pool, and John swallows. Had it landed just a bit closer to them, it was very likely one of them would have been crushed to death.

Sherlock's got his feet on the ground now, wringing his coat out and looking supremely irritated at the puddles of water it's dripping. "We'll never get a taxi in this state," he mutters as John hoists himself up, ignoring the twinging in his shoulder. He's got one knee up on the deck, just a foot left in the water, when a large hand grabs the scruff of his jacket and tugs violently.

John yells in shock as he's dragged over sharp bits of concrete scattered on what's left of the floor and tries to hit back, but another pair of hands immobilize his arms with more force than ever necessary. Expecting the pain this time, John keeps his reaction down to a mild grunt. Doesn't Moriarty ever fucking quit? He can hear Sherlock's struggles somewhere behind him, his muted cry of outrage. He can also hear a faint squelching noise from somewhere in front of him, which can only be one other person.

John stops struggling and looks up to see Moriarty, as dripping wet as they are, smirking nastily at him. He gestures and Moran – it has to be Moran – tugs John's arms until he rolls over, facing the other way. Sherlock has also been wrestled to the floor by two of the other snipers, one kneeling on his lower back and the other holding Sherlock's arms at the same painful angle of John's. John can't tell which emotion dominates on his face – there's pain there, definitely, outrage, anger, hurt pride, and just the smallest bit of worry as he meets John's eyes.

"Say goodbye to your pet, Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty says from above. "We need to have a chat, but I don't think you'll be seeing him after that." The uninhibited glee in his voice made the bile rise in John's throat. He is going to die very, _very _bloody. There must be another signal John doesn't see, because Moran leverages his arms again and John quickly hops to his feet to lessen the pain, ignoring the humiliation of jumping so quickly to the unspoken order. Moran pushes him forwards, towards the doors Sherlock entered. They'll have cars waiting, undoubtedly. Would they put John in the trunk or the back seat under guard? The trunk is more secure, but Moriarty will probably want to gloat before they arrive at whatever hole they're taking him to die. Maybe fantasize in front of John of all the things he can do to a traitor just to see John's terror.

Across the deck, Sherlock is struggling wildly. "John!" He bellows. The sniper kneeling on his lower back applies more pressure, and Sherlock's face twists even more in response to the pain. John wants to say something, but the fear is thick in his throat. Sherlock would already know what he'd say anyway, right? He's a genius at reading people, though he's a moron at emotions. A strange dichotomy. Sherlock tries to buck off the sniper but the man just increases the pressure, and he subsides, heaving with the effort. "You let him go!" he yells instead, eyes wild. "Moriarty!"

They're almost to where Sherlock is restrained now. John glances down one last time as Sherlock cranes his head up to look at him, despite the pain it must cause. "I'm going to get you back, John," he vows, determination etched into every pained line on Sherlock's face. John almost wants to believe it. But with the resources Moriarty has, even Mycroft's various agencies would be hard-pressed to find the barest rumor of his location. John still can't talk, so he summons up a strained smile that's trying to say thank you and goodbye and I'm sorry for everything that you don't even know. He thinks it fails miserably. And then Sherlock's out of his line of sight.

Behind him, John can hear the scuffle of Sherlock's clothes catching on concrete as he once again tries to wrench himself away from his captors and Moriarty's damned laughter. "Oh-ho!" he says. "You might not like what you find if you go that way, Sherlock. So many _secrets_." For one terrible moment, John thinks Moriarty is going to spill it all, leave John to die friendless and unsearched for. Then, in the distance, there are sirens; emergency response team, finally. John's almost at the door. "But listen, that's my cue! Must be off – for real this time. Nighty-night. Remember to be good for the police when you wake up, darling."

There's a thud and a grunt and the soft squish of Moriarty's ruined designer shoes before John's forced outside to where three cars are idling. "Sir," one of the men waiting outside reports to Moran as he and John pass. "We took out the brother's shadows but the emergency services are approaching quickly."

"Pack it up," Moran replies. The man salutes quickly before walking away. He reaches for a radio, but by the time he starts muttering he's too far away for John to discern what he's saying. Moran shoves John forward hard enough to make him stumble, and chuckles. "My condolences on your future premature death, Doctor Watson. I'm sure it'll be painful." John licks dry lips and drags his feet. It's the small things that keep one's morale up, the little resistances. Slow feet for one. For another, he won't respond – that's what Moran gets off on, the power. It's best to keep quiet. Moran leads him to the second car and opens a door. "Get in, Doctor." They're putting him in the back seat, it appears. John gets in.


End file.
